


Ownership

by ibonekoen



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e20 Five Years Gone, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibonekoen/pseuds/ibonekoen
Summary: Peter's on the auction block and his worst enemy is bidding on him. His day can't get much worse, right? (Set post episode 1x20 Five Years Gone)





	

Peter isn't certain what he expected would happen to him after being captured but the idea of being chained and led out onto an auction block hadn't even entered his thought process. He's been kept in solitary confinement since his capture; the fight with Sylar in the Homeland Security building had gone horribly wrong, and he's still a little fuzzy on how exactly he lost consciousness. He does know that he woke up in a Company cell in the Hartsdale facility, and he's been there ever since, kept away from the other prisoners. He hasn't actually seen the Haitian around, but he knows the man has to be there somewhere, judging by the way his abilities won't work.

He blinks against the harsh industrial lighting of the warehouse; he's been kept mostly in darkness while in captivity, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. His hands are chained together, and he's wearing simple gray cotton pants and a white tank top. His hair is loose and falling around his face and into his eyes, the gel normally keeping his long bangs slicked back having been washed out in preparation of the auction. He's clean-shaven as well, his face scrubbed until his skin is shiny and pink, the stark whiteness of the jagged scar bisecting his face more pronounced.

His eyes narrow as he scans the gathered crowd -- judging by their attire and all the jewels and gold adorning the women's necks, he wagers they're all rich, upper crust members of society; he doesn't see the Haitian in the midst of the crowd, so that gives him a bit of hope. His entire body goes rigid as his eyes land on a strikingly familiar face, and he feels dread pooling in his belly. Nathan's famed shark grin and piercing eyes are fixed solely on Peter, and the empath involuntarily shudders, knowing the evil that lurks behind that mask.

He glances around him, getting the lay of the land, and spies other specials in a holding pen behind him. He only recognizes them as specials because Noah and he have helped most of them go into hiding. That dread in his belly sours, and he feels bile backing up in his throat, stinging and leaving a foul taste. If the specials Noah had so carefully and painstakingly hidden have been captured, then Peter has a pretty good idea what happened to Noah, and he silently grieves for his fallen friend.

The auctioneer begins the bidding at ten thousand dollars, and Peter snorts, revolted at the idea of being sold to the highest bidder. He'd participated in an auction when he was a senior in high school, but he has a feeling that whoever wins the bid won't just settle for making him carry their books all day.

He thinks that maybe it's time to make a stand, and he tries to subtly flick his fingers, hoping to call upon the telekinesis he got from someone along the way, he doesn't remember now. He's progressed past the point of having to think about the person who gave him the ability and how they made him feel; he's more in control, has many more abilities at his disposal. He frowns deeply as the auctioneer continues with his rapid-fire bid calling, and the empath is alarmed to note that the bids have climbed to fifteen thousand dollars. He is equally dismayed when he realizes that the grin on "Nathan's" face has sharpened, become crueler, more sinister, and Peter's heart begins to beat with trepidation as the President holds up a plastic rectangular card with a number printed on it in a thick, bold font. The bid climbs to twenty thousand dollars, and Peter's head starts to spin a little at the idea of Sylar owning him. Never mind the fact that slavery has been illegal in the United States since the end of the Civil War, never mind the fact that there are other specials lined up like cattle and waiting to be sold as well; Peter is, for once, concerned about only himself. Sylar is the epitome of the Devil, in Peter's eyes, and he can only imagine what tortures the sadistic killer might inflict on him.

His stomach twists as the bid continues to escalate higher and higher until the auctioneer proclaims Peter "sold to the highest bidder for eighty-five thousand dollars! Congratulations, Mr. President." Peter's knees threaten to buckle as icy cold fear grips his heart, and he awkwardly stumbles forward as he's jerked off the auction block by a burly Secret Service bodyguard dressed in a crisp black suit, dark shades hiding his eyes. Peter tries to fight, struggling against the tight grip the man has on his bicep, and he hisses in pain as something sharp is suddenly jabbed into the back of his neck. The edges of his vision start to go dark, and his knees really do buckle, no longer able to support his weight. He goes down heavily, collapsing to the concrete floor, and his vision darkens considerably. The last thing he sees before he blacks out entirely is Nathan's triumphant smirk flashing too-white teeth, and then he succumbs, letting the darkness overtake him.

\---

Peter wakes to the touch of silky softness against his cheek and a fuzzy feeling in his mouth. He blinks against the gumminess of gunk in his eyes, and sits up a little, the whisper of satiny silk accompanying his movements, and he looks down at the dark sheets covering him. The sheets themselves are a charcoal gray with a darker black pinstripe and gold thread, and Peter frowns, pushing them aside with the intent of getting out of the luxuriously soft bed. His eyes widen in surprise as cool air hits his warm skin, and he glances down, sucking in a startled breath as he realizes he's naked.

He quickly draws the sheets back over himself, gathering them around his waist to preserve his modesty, and he frowns deeply as he glances around the room. It's humbly decorated, the unassuming, basic cherrywood dresser and frameless mirror a sharp contrast of the opulence of the bed with its gleaming gold frame and inlay of Swarovski crystals across the headboard. Peter snorts a little, figuring that Sylar would be the type of person to have something so gaudy. He doesn't see the man in question, so maybe he's in luck and can make a break for it.

He's just thinking that maybe he'll look in the dresser for some clothes and is wrapping the sheets tighter around him so he can get up when the door opens, and he freezes, his eyes widening in that classic 'deer in the headlight' look. Nathan struts into the room, wearing a dark gray waistcoat and matching slacks, the red brocade silk tie standing out against the crisp whiteness of his dress shirt. He flashes that shark grin again, and then his face ripples and blurs, shifting into Sylar's more angular features, his dark hair standing up in short spikes, and Peter feels his stomach flip with nervousness.

"Oh good, you're finally awake," Sylar drawls, a smug tone to his deep voice as he shuts the door behind him. His eyes casually sweep over the muscled planes of Peter's chest, and the younger man's cheek twitches.

Peter has the urge to yank the sheets up to his shoulders to cover his nakedness, but he refuses to show weakness in front of Sylar. He settles for narrowing his eyes and glaring. "So, the government is bringing back the slave trade, huh? Abraham Lincoln must be thrashing in his grave right now."

Sylar snorts a bit and shrugs his shoulders. "Well, it isn't actually sanctioned by the government, but who's going to notice a few specials missing? Most people are terrified of them anyway, so they're glad that they're off the streets."

"How do you keep their abilities in check?" Peter wonders. "The Haitian can't be everywhere." He feels a bit of triumph when Sylar flinches, and he can feel the right corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smirk.

"Unfortunately, the Haitian is no longer with us," Sylar says, actually sounding saddened. "Your friend Hiro from the past took care of that." He shrugs a bit and moves over to a wingback chair in the corner. He takes a seat, crossing one leg over the other, his ankle resting against his knee. "Our scientists managed to perfect technology based on his ability though, and all slaves are fitted with a chip that dampens their abilities."

He reaches back to tap a space at the base of his neck and then smirks at Peter, who's absently reaching up to touch that same space on his own neck. There is, of course, no blemish, no scar to indicate he's been chipped, but his healing ability took care of that, no doubt.

He narrows his eyes at Sylar and then decides to test it, flicking his hand in the other man's direction. He isn't surprised when Sylar isn't flung across the room, and he merely presses his lips together. Well, that puts a kink in the hose of trying to escape. He'll just have to come up with another plan, he guesses. "So I'm your slave," he says, a disgusted tone in his voice as his lips curl. "Planning to kill me then?"

Sylar laughs lightly and shakes his head. "Oh, Peter, such a small mind," he says, tapping his finger against his temple. "I didn't pay eighty-five thousand of taxpayers' dollars just to kill you not even a day later." He gives Peter a cruel smirk, licking his lips with hunger in his dark eyes. "No, I intend to have some fun first."

Peter starts to protest, something in those eyes and that smirk telling him just what "fun" Sylar intends to have with him. He just barely gets his mouth open, retort ready on his tongue, and he stops, eyes on Sylar's finger, which is crooked. He watches helplessly at the sheets protecting his modesty are yanked out of his grasp and drawn back, his nakedness bared to the eyes of his most hated enemy. His supple olive skin flushes a faint shade of crimson from shame, and he can feel heat starting to rise in his cheeks. "You're going to force yourself on me? Classy." His tone is dripping with sarcasm as he snorts, glaring at Sylar, who seems unfazed.

"Peter, I have enough abilities in my arsenal, abilities I've been collecting over the years I've been posing as Nathan, that I can make you do virtually anything I choose. I don't have to force myself on you," Sylar says casually. That cruel smirk plays across his face again. "I just have to use the right ability, and you'll be begging me for it."

Peter scowls and shakes his head, determined to fight whatever ability Sylar chooses to throw at him. He tells himself not to trust his eyes or thoughts or pretty much anything, but he feels his skin heating up more and more under the ardent gaze Sylar is giving him. He swallows, dragging his tongue over his lips, and he shakes his head, scowling. "No," he says, though his voice seems hollow, flat to his ears.

Sylar just continues to smirk, smoothly and gracefully rising from the chair. He keeps his eyes on Peter as he strides forward, everything about his posture bold and conquering.

Peter instinctively shrinks back, hating that he feels like a quivering heroine or a shrinking violet in a Harlequin novel, and he brings up a foot, preparing to kick Sylar in the chest. Slave or not, he isn't going down without a fight, dammit -- and then Sylar does the unexpected. He catches Peter's ankle in his hand and then leans down, ghosting his lips across the bottoms of Peter's toes. Peter has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from giggling at the tickle of Sylar's lips, and then he stares, flabbergasted, as Sylar draws his big toe into his mouth and sucks.

"What are you-" Peter cuts off, his mouth dropping open at the sight of Sylar's lips surrounding his toe, and he feels his body starting to respond, the heat licking down his neck and chest. His mind is already starting to supply him with lustful images of Sylar's lips latched onto something farther north, something that is starting to stir from the bawdiness of those images. He's not sure if they're coming from himself or if Sylar is trying to drive him mad, but he struggles to push them away, closing his eyes without thought. The inky blackness across his vision doesn't help, only provides the images with a blank canvas upon which they can project themselves, and Peter has to bite back a moan as Sylar's lips graze along the side of his foot, moving over his ankle and along his calf. "Stop."

Sylar ignores him, trailing his lips higher and higher until Peter's breath is hitched. He's leaning back slightly, his hands flat against the mattress beneath him, and his shoulders are braced against the headboard. His body is betraying him in all sorts of manners, from the heaving of his chest to the faint thrill of anticipation pulsing through him; even his eyes are rebelling, his eyelids fluttering as Sylar's kisses travel upward. There's a moment when Sylar's lips are hovering on Peter's hipbone, mere inches from the dark curls nestled around the base of his dick -- which has become achingly hard at some point that Peter can't directly recall -- and Peter's breath catches, his pulse racing beneath his skin.

"Sylar, dammit, stop." There's a startling lack of venom behind Peter's words, and he frowns, trying to figure out why he suddenly has the desire to yield to Sylar, to drop back onto the sheets and pull Sylar on top of him, let him have his way. He shudders, expelling the breath he was holding in a sigh as Sylar continues to kiss his way up Peter's body, and his eyes involuntarily close. He doesn't push Sylar away as the other man reaches his chest, and he makes a garbled noise in the back of his throat as Sylar latches onto a nipple, giving it the same suckling as his toe had gotten. "Jesus..."

Sylar smirks as he mutters against Peter's skin, “Gabriel, actually.” 

Peter doesn't have a chance to respond because Sylar is taking the empath's other nipple into his mouth. Teeth lightly graze over the hardening nub, and Peter hisses through clenched teeth as his back arches, his head tipping back. Some part of him is still fighting; there's a litany of “no, no, no” in the back of his head, so he's stunned to hear himself whisper, in a voice roughened by desire, “Yes.”

He can feel the smugness practically radiating off of Sylar, and he tightly squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see that smugness echoed on Sylar's face. Sylar kisses Peter's neck, teeth sinking into fevered flesh at Peter's pulse point, and the empath is gone, spiraling away in a cyclone of lust and wantonness. His arms quiver from the effort of holding himself up, and then they buckle, his back hitting the sheets as his head nestles into the pillow. He exhales, a soft sigh as he arches under Sylar's touch, the other man's hand lazily coasting down Peter's side.

“What've you done to me?” Peter mumbles, his eyes half-lidded. He feels drunk, his head swimming, his senses dulled, and he gives a ragged pant as Sylar's hand settles on his hip. He's ashamed at the way his body jerks into Sylar's touch, and he idly wonders if the other man is controlling him.

“Not controlling you, Pete,” Sylar whispers, his breath hot against Peter's ear, leaving the empath to wonder from whom the other man stole telepathy. “You've just always wanted this.”

Peter laughs, a harsh, raspy sound, and he adamantly shakes his head. The anger at hearing Sylar use Nathan's nickname for his baby brother has renewed Peter's will to fight, and he struggles to push Sylar away from him. When he tries to lift his hands though, it's impossible, some heavy, invisible force keeping them at his sides, pressed against the mattress. “Bullshit,” he growls. “I hate you.”

“Mmm, they do say hate sex is incredible,” Sylar says breezily. He sucks lightly at Peter's skin, right at his pulse point, hand squeezing Peter's hip, before his hand shifts, moving eastward. Peter's breath leaves him in a rush as Sylar's fingers curl around him in a loose grip, and then his hips are rising to follow Sylar's hand as it glides upward. Peter hisses, eyes tightly squeezed shut so he doesn't have to watch his enemy defile him. He can't deny that it feels good though, and he lets out a loud groan as Sylar's grip tightens. Peter is pretty sure he's going to have an unhealthy amount of self-loathing later, but right now, his hips cant up to meet Sylar's downward stroke, and Peter thinks he might just explode (figuratively, at least) when Sylar's free hand cups Peter's balls. Peter makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat, body rocking as Sylar's palm firmly massages over his heavy balls.

The helpless noise becomes an all-out whine as Sylar's hands suddenly withdraw, and Peter becomes embarrassed. His chest is heaving, his hair flopped over his face from where his head has been thrashing back and forth, and he glares through his curtain of hair. Sylar is leaning back, one knee perched on the edge of the bed while his other leg bores the brunt of his weight, and he has a cocky grin on his face. He looks every bit like the cat that swallowed the fucking canary, and Peter is suddenly struck with the urge to punch that smirk right off Sylar's face. Of course, it's a moot point since Sylar is still telekinetically pinning his hands, so he has to settle for just glaring vehemently.

Sylar doesn't seem to be fazed, and just hungrily licks his lips as he casually reaches up and starting undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. Once it's dangling open, he reaches up and tugs at the knot of his tie, untying it and jerking it from around his neck with a firmness that makes Peter's cock jump. Peter swallows heavily, dragging his tongue over suddenly dry lips, and he blinks, trying to dispel whatever bewitchment has overcome him. Sylar seems to sense this, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins again. The tie gets casually discarded and the waistcoat joins it a moment later before Sylar starts undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Peter gives a slow blink, watching Sylar as more of his toned body is revealed, and the empath drags his tongue over his lips. Sylar continues to smirk and then pulls his shirt open, sliding the material off his shirt and letting it drop to the floor. Then he leans forward, hands balanced against the mattress, and Peter gulps as he sees the muscles corded in Sylar’s arms. His eyes flick to the other man’s neck, and then he’s being kissed, Sylar’s lips catching him by surprise and stealing away his breath. By the time Sylar’s tongue gets through exploring his mouth, Peter is trembling with want, feeling lightheaded as he tries to suck in enough air to clear his head.

Sylar draws back, hands undoing his belt buckle, and then he gets rid of his pants. Peter snorts a little as he sees that Sylar isn’t wearing any underwear; he would make a smart-assed remark about that, but Sylar is suddenly on top of him again, lips and hands and teeth everywhere and nowhere near where Peter wants it, all at once. His body writhes, and he instinctively tries to lift his arms. He’s very surprised when he meets no resistance, and a teeny part of his brain is nagging him to shove Sylar away and make a run for it. Instead, the lustful side of him that needs this release wins out, and his arms settle around Sylar’s shoulders. One hand snakes upward to the back of Sylar’s head, fingers twisting in his hair, and the fingers of Peter’s other hand curl slightly. He drags his short nails down Sylar’s back, enjoying the way the other man arches into him, hissing slightly. His legs ruck up around Sylar’s waist, locking tight, and then Sylar is smirking and holding out a hand.

Peter watches drowsily, his pupils blown wide with desire, as a drawer in the nightstand beside the bed opens and a bottle of lube floats out, propelled by Sylar’s telekinesis. It smacks against Sylar’s palm, and he gives Peter a lascivious wink as he thumbs open the cap and squirts some of the slippery liquid into his other hand. Then he reaches between their bodies, wraps his hand around their cocks and strokes upward.

Peter’s eyes damn near roll into the back of his head and he lets out a throaty groan, his body racked with a shudder. When Sylar feels they’re both sufficiently prepared, he recaps the bottle and sets it aside, and then settles against Peter.

He gives an experimental push of his hips, watching Peter's face, and he's rewarded by a look of unadulterated desire. A few more forward snaps of his hips, and Peter is arching into him, mouth dropping open in a soundless cry, and Sylar is captivated by the way that Peter's mouth goes crooked, one side of his lip unmoving. Sylar presses a kiss to that corner of Peter's mouth, and then drops his forehead down onto the empath's shoulder, speeding up the tempo of his thrusts.

The low heat that's been slowly licking at Peter's belly suddenly flares into an inferno, and he feels the coil of tension in his body winding tighter and tighter. "Fuck," he gasps, his voice sounding ragged and gravelly. Sylar's name is there on the tip of his tongue, but he bites his bottom lip in an attempt to keep that name from escaping. He refuses to give Sylar that satisfaction, even if he is steadily careening toward a mind-blowing orgasm.

Their bodies fall into a natural rhythm, pushing and rocking and crashing together in a raw, lustful dance. Peter's fingers are clawing at Sylar's shoulders, his legs locked tightly around the other man's waist; he feels that coil of tension in his body constrict sharply, and then it shatters, his body flooded with euphoria as he hits that crescendo. He cries out, unintelligibly, as he comes hard, painting thick white stripes across Sylar's belly. Sylar groans, spiraling into his own climax on the heel of Peter's release, and then he's too wrung out, too exhausted to hold himself above Peter any longer, and he sags against him, panting heavily in Peter's ears.

Peter is trying to catch his breath, and he's shaken to realize that Sylar and he are panting in perfect unison, their discordant gasps melding. He suddenly feels sick about what just happened between them, and he gives a groggy "G'off me" while placing his hand flat on Sylar's shoulder and trying to shove the dead weight of the spent man off of him. Sylar makes an annoyed grunt and doesn't move, his eyes closing.

"Go to sleep," he mumbles, unmindful of the stickiness between their bodies. He's quite content to just lay there on top of Peter, and his breathing soon evens out, leaving Peter stuck beneath him.


End file.
